


Sigh

by tajador



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25465390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tajador/pseuds/tajador
Summary: Jamil alone with his hands and thoughts of Kalim.
Relationships: Kalim Al-Asim/Jamil Viper
Comments: 13
Kudos: 164





	Sigh

**Author's Note:**

> i often think about how kalim has like 3 homescreen lines about jamil while jamil has two dozens of lines about kalim

Dimly lit room, candles and incense, arranged pillows. Should he put on some music? His hand hovers his tape deck but decides against it, taking a seat at the edge of his bed. He smirks at his own reflection in the wall-length mirror, leaning back to watch his lean muscles ripple along his torso as he does so.

Jamil rarely found time for himself, although as of late it was mostly out of his own self-imposed obligations and ambitions — Studying, rehearsing, training, practicing so he could do right by himself, his restraints loosened. By the time he could slip into bed, he tended to pass out the moment his head grazed his pillow. But not tonight. Nope. He had breezed through midterms, kicked Floyd's ass at club practice, got praised by that teacher and this upperclassman, beat all of Kalim's practical magic test records... It was time for some _Me_ time. Just for a night.

A pearl of argan oil in his palm, rubbing his hands together before slipping his fingers at the root of his damp hair, massaging his scalp before brushing his fingers down the length of his hair, touches of a gentleness he had only known by the tip of his own fingers, and... No. Not right now. Curls and waves form as his hair dries, pride, always, waiting for their jewelry and ornaments.

Lotion next, cool pouring onto his fingers before being spread across his legs, a sigh as his muscles find a hint of release from running and dancing and standing at kitchen counters for hours on end. Arms then, a faint tan line where his sweatband rests during gym classes. Countless cuts and scarred wounds found at his fingers and wrists, burns decorating the inbetweens. His torso follows the same trend, some marks recent, pleasant — Others of decades past, wounds that would never heal regardless of how much lotion he carefully smooths over them.

 _We're not like 'them'_ , his parents would often tell him. _Be proud_. _You've earned these._

And proud he was, of his family name, of who he was born as — Just as he wanted to be proud of his first name, the one that was given to him, the one he could become — Beauty. A hood, a mask, a gash left to heal without stitches. He recalls his parents being taken aside by Kalim's father, hushed whispers and looks in his direction, only to be told to go change his clothes.

_Stop attracting so much attention._

All it had taught him was that he didn't even need to try. He sits up straight for the mirror, pushes his hair over his left shoulder as he tends to, smiles again. Maybe that's what made moments such as these so special. Knowing one glance, two touches, three words would be enough to drag anyone into his bed.

Except the one he denied himself.

Dumb fucking thoughts. Whatever. He puts the oil and lotion back into a drawer and lays down, watching the flames and their shadows dancing along his silken canopy. He rests his hand on his stomach for a moment, deep breaths, ones that feel like the first he's taken in days. His fingers find the hairs peppered below his belly button — Should he wax these? Meh, they're fine. Hard to compare with others when most of his friends were either dolphin smooth pseudo-sea creatures or furry beastkin. Or guys with fire for hair.

Jamil grumbles. Not the best time to contemplate his classmates and upperclassmen. Especially not what they look like in the locker rooms. Think of... Who knows. No one in particular. Just... An ass. Yeah. Round buttcheeks that give in when you squeeze them... Just begging to be slapped... Jamil gropes himself through the towel still wrapped around his waist, modest in all of his inhibitions. Nice. He's still soft under his touches, allowing his mind to take a step ahead. His hands on that ass, spreading the cheeks apart... A perfectly smooth little hole expecting him...

No. Why is it perfectly smooth? Does it belong to a mermaid?? No way he's fucking any of the fish guys he knows. No sirree. Except... Okay. Butts aren't working. But they're not all he could fuck... Lips, glossy and smooth, a warm tongue expecting him... A mouth — Fangs or not — wide open for him to fill, wet and warm as he burrows himself into it, hitting the back of their throat... Crimson eyes looking up at him, filled with tears as he grabs a handful of white hair—

Ah, fuck. His dick twitches slightly, hardening under his hand, growing sensitive to the friction of the towel covering it. He wants to ravage Kalim. He really, _really_ does. He also _really_ wants to stop thinking about him. Apparently dedicating his whole life to him wasn't enough already.

And so he closes his eyes as he grabs himself again, thinking... Of tits, small or big, it doesn't matter, perky nipples for him to tease and bite and torture until _he_ whines his name, Jamil, Jamil, _Jamil_... It's Kalim's voice, begging, pleading — He's heard it so often, infuriating and adorable, playing in his head as if he were right here, right besides him... Maybe it's his hand slipping under the towel, so small and soft, untouched, undamaged, unharmed... No, the palm handling his shaft is roughened in all of its burns and scars, twice as harmed so Kalim's could stay clean.

More grumbling and sighing, Jamil sitting up against his pillows to distractedly thumb at the tip of his growing erection while digging into the drawers of his brain for sexy thoughts, frustrated to find most of them filled with Kalim content. Should he just give in? Get it over with? No, come on, try a little harder. Yeah...

He recalls Vil praising his dancing and posture, carefully touching Jamil's cheek while applying glitter to his lids — How _good_ it felt to have someone else's attention on him, heart-shaped lips, strong masculine hand cradling his jaw — And not be the one waiting on someone's hand and foot, Kalim's obedient little face and closed eyes and puckered lips...

Ah. Precum beads at his tip, thoughts of Kalim trusting Jamil blindly, allowing him to touch his lips, for makeup, in theory, but what if he were to shove his fingers inside Kalim's mouth, shutting him up, making him gag as he thrusts into him forcefully... Jamil chuckles. As if he'd bring himself to do something like that. It just wasn't worth dealing with the apologies and tears that would follow.

How much easier everything would be if Kalim acted more like the heir he's supposed to be, granting Jamil rights to his hatred and anger — He thinks of Leona complaining incessantly, him and his stature and his feral instincts and his scent, low voice and growls as he calls Jamil a kid and touches his hair unceremoniously. Hm. Jamil slowly moves his lubricated fingers downwards, shivers along his spine and warmth pooling in his stomach as he grazes his taint. Someone who would fill him without being conscious of each of his thoughts and words and scars and...

What a waste of time. Who is he kidding? It's Kalim he wants. It's always been Kalim. He wants to be revered, he wants to be tortured, he wants the one he hates and loves more than any within him — Like the tip of his fingers, inching into himself, arching his back as he opens himself up. Kalim's pink tongue, perfect fingers, thick cock, whichever — As long as he's inside Jamil, making him feel like the most precious of diamonds, _no_ , like he wants to break him, shatter him, Jamil who's already falling apart for him.

Kalim's frustrating strength — Jamil groans, turns over, smooshes his face into his pillow as he slips a second finger into himself — Pinned down, scarred wrists trapped under strong hands, Kalim's disgustingly hot breath against his neck, kisses and bites and praises and _ugh_ if only he would insult him, look down on him, poison in his voice as he tells him to _stop attracting so much attention_... If only he would admit that Jamil is his, claiming his ownership out loud, ravaging his insides like he's already ravaged his heart, his life.

Jamil bites into his pillow, frustrated at both his mind and his hands, they're not enough, he wants more, he wants Kalim. Clumsily jacking himself off as his fingers work their way in, deeper, thicker, he thinks of Kalim filling him, his smell, his heat, his voice, and it's words of praise he hears — You're amazing Jamil, you're so beautiful Jamil, what would I do without you Jamil, _let me hear your voice, you're so tight, I want to fill you up, you feel so good, you're such a good boy_ —

Jamil chokes back a whine, hangry (angry, horny, hungry), his curls sticking to his back as sweat beads all over his skin and he thinks of Kalim's fingers in them, caressing, brushing, playing, pulling on his hair as he fucks him from behind — But of course he would want his mouth, too, he takes and he takes and he shoves his tongue inside Jamil's mouth, tastes all too familiar... Jamil is aware of the drool pooling on his pillowcase as he mouths it, _sick,_ but it's of little concern compared to how wet he was getting, jerking himself off as his dick throbs to thoughts of Kalim swallowing him, taking, again, making all that is Jamil's his.

He fucks himself with his fingers, hooked into the right spot, four and it's not as thick as Kalim would be but it'll have to do for tonight. He's knuckles deep into himself, wishing Kalim would bury his whole length in, hurting and pleasuring and that freak stamina of his making him keep going even as Jamil begs him to stop, _just one more Jamil, I'm sorry, I can't stop myself, I'm sorry, you just feel so good._ Used, toyed, handled, milked, _fucked_ until he can't part from Kalim...

(It wouldn't make much of a difference.)

Jamil can't hold his voice back, a scream of pleasure, a name on his tongue. He moves the towel just in time to come into it, rutting against his bed as he tightens around his own fingers, leg muscles tense in all of their bliss. Each pant brings him closer back down to earth, closer to the realization that _shit, not again_ — Another evening to himself spent fantasizing about the object of all of his hatred, of all of his desires.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you! you can send in requests & find exclusive stories, translations, thoughts and references on my 100% twst 99.9% scarabia twitter: [@mrromrro](https://twitter.com/mrromrro) ♡


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